


Interstitial Light

by monicawoe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: B.A.R.F. | Binarily Augmented Retro Framing, Gen, Natasha POV, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Red Room (Marvel), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-07 14:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18874888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: After Thanos wiped half of life off the planet, the remaining Avengers find a way to reach out to those they lost, using a combination of Stark-Tech, magic and their own memories. Steve makes contact with Bucky, but they spent too many decades apart when Steve was on ice. But there was somebody else who knew Bucky during that time—who trained with him, who knew both the Winter Soldier and James Barnes: Natasha.





	Interstitial Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nwspaprtaxis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/gifts).



> A birthday fic for [ nwspaprtaxis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis) who wanted Red Room Natasha and Bucky angst.
> 
> Big thanks to my beta [ speranza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speranza)!

Natasha looked at Tony and Wong dubiously,“How’s this supposed to work again?”She looked over at Steve, who looked back at her and shrugged.

“It helps you relive your memories, in high definition.” Tony rapped his knuckle against the headset. “This syncs with your brain’s auditory and visual processing centers and helps you solidify those memories, so you can interact with them.”

“Yeah, I get that, but how is reliving my memories supposed to help us reach Barnes? Thanos turned him to dust.”

“He removed him and the others from our reality,” Wong said, “but not from existence. I believe they are in another dimension.”

“A dimension we might be able to make contact with,” Tony said. “If they answer, we might get something to latch onto—something to track and show us where they are.”

Steve nodded. “And that’s where this comes in.” He held up the faintly shimmering bracelet he’d been wearing during his own three hour session with the Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing (BARF) machine. Natasha repressed a sigh. She’d never get over that stupid acronym. “Something about this connects our memories with our shared timelines.”

“The beads are imbued with some of the power of the Time Stone,” Wong said, “Not enough to truly travel through the time stream, but enough to send a message. To leave behind a trail of breadcrumbs, so to speak.” He tapped one of the beads with his fingertips. "There will be moments, in your memories, when your connection is the strongest. This will tell you when.”

“Okay,” Natasha said, “so these breadcrumbs, they’re like beacons for Barnes to follow. Show him the way home.”

“Yes.” Steve’s sad smile faltered. “I left as many as I could for him but…” He shrugged his shoulders. “We've been apart too long. I was in the ice for seventy years. Too many decades for him to make the jump from 1945 to now.” He paused for a minute and looked at her steadily. "But you—you saw him during some of those years I missed, didn’t you?"

Natasha asked, because she felt obligated to, “How long have you known?”

“I found some photos of your thirtieth birthday in 1994, and we celebrated your 30th in 2014, so ..."

“I forgot a lot of it. They made me forget. But when we—after Thanos, after everyone we lost—it hurt so much I thought I was gonna break.”

Steve’s expression shifted, chin quivering as he nodded agreement.

“But instead I remembered. Not everything, but a lot.Enough.”

“What’d they give you?”

"It's not what you two have. I age slower, that's all." She took his hand and gave him as reassuring a smile as she could muster. “Don’t worry, Steve. I canget you a few decades closer.”She turned and looked at the others. “You sure it’ll be enough?”

Wong frowned. “Depends. The beads are only as powerful as the connection you made with the wandering soul. ”

“Assuming they’re even wandering,” Tony said darkly, “and not just gone for good.”

“It was real,” Steve said, with a certainty Natasha wished she could have. “He—the way he acted when I saw him. In the machine.Those weren’t just memories. It was him in there.”

“Choose a time where you were most significant to each other,” Wong said.

“Also the BARF system gets easier to use with practice, so start with a strong memory, if you have one,” Tony added.

“Okay then, what’re we waiting for?” Natasha said, hiding her nervousness and doubt with practiced ease. She gave Steve one last smile, then slipped the headset on. Just pick a time from the past where she’d interacted with Barnes. The further back the better. The stronger the memory the better.

That was the problem of course. She’d spent a long time trying to blot out the past. Recalling it on purpose was the opposite of what she wanted. But this wasn’t about her. It was about getting their friends back. All of them. So they had a fighting chance against the madman that had killed half the world. If they had their full team, they stood a far better chance of taking him down.

The headset covered her whole field of vision and countered all sound around her. It was almost like an immersion tank, nothing but her own thoughts echoing inside her head. Natasha took a breath and forced down her walls, made herself remember her time with the Red Room, focusing in on the day she’d first met the Winter Soldier.

#

A burst of sound and color surrounded her, slowly settling into place, the image clearing before her mind had a chance to catch up. Her past—her future past and her memories of it dissolved, like a sugar cube in acid, leaving her empty and unsure.

But the disorientation faded quickly, and recognition hit her like a shock of cold water. She knew this place: the grey walls, the rubber-coated floor, the stern-faced woman watching her. Watching them.

Natasha looked down at the man trapped beneath her knee. He wasn’t important. Someone sent in for target practice. Loyal to the cause, but of little consequence. The woman watching—Madame M—snapped a command in Russian: “End it.”

With a practiced shift of her weight, Natasha thrust her knee into his throat and held it there until he lost consciousness. This wasn’t a kill exercise, she remembered that much. This was about incapacitation. There were missions she’d have where discretion was paramount, and learning how to take down witnesses was an important skill.

“Next,” Madame M said, and Natasha stood, stepping away from the practice ring. The next girl—another black widow in training—stepped into the ring as the unconscious man was dragged away.

Natasha watched the rest of the widows spar with the other men. The men were Wolves, highly skilled, highly ranked operatives. Anya lasted fifty-five seconds. Oxsana one minute ten seconds. The rest didn’t fare as well. The second Wolf took them down efficiently, generally within two strikes. Natasha watched the girls fall, one by one, felt each blow distantly, knew the pain such impact would cause, but had been trained better than to empathize enough to feel it herself.

By the time they’d all sparred, only five of the thirteen widows were left capable of standing. Natasha felt disdain. She had defeated her opponent. The others should have done the same. The men may have been Wolves, but they were still only men.

Madame’s voice cut through Natasha’s reverie. “Three of you will stay. Belova, Pogrobev, Romanova. The rest of you, back to your quarters.”

#

Natasha’s heart caught in her throat when their next opponent entered the training room: the Winter Soldier. Up until now, little more than a fairy tale. A boogeyman the girls liked to whisper about at night. She’d believed he was real, because none of their handlers had ever denied that he was. And they didn’t tolerate fantasy. He was every bit as frightening as they’d speculated—large and fierce with a metal left arm in place of flesh, but also strikingly handsome. Or he would be if it wasn’t for the deadly look in his eyes. This was not a normal target she could distract the way she’d been taught to do with others. Men were usually so easy to fight, no matter how well trained. But he seemed just as much machine as man.

He made quick work of Dykstra, who he swatted away like an oversized fly, and Pogrobev who he knocked out with one swift punch to her sternum. Natasha heard the distinct crack of bone, and felt a pang of sympathy for Pogrobev that she quickly dismissed. They weren’t here to be friends. There were no friends here. Only allies for the battlefield.

Her turn came more quickly than she would’ve liked. She hadn’t had sufficient time to study his technique, if he even had one. He seemed to act with no strategy beyond defeating his opponent. And perhaps he didn’t need more than that. He was shockingly fast—faster than she would have expected from someone his size. The metal arm didn’t slow him down in the slightest. She found herself extending most of her mental energies just dodging his blows, as quick as a boxer and twice as deadly. She blocked his right arm a few times, their forearms clashing together. She’d be badly bruised in the morning, but intact. Not if his left arm struck her though.

The most difficult thing, Natasha realized, quickly, was that he was unreadable. He had no tells. She couldn’t predict what he was going to do next. And when he waited for her to move he was inhumanly still, a remarkably lifelike statue. Even his breaths were shallow, like nothing she’d done up until then had exhausted him in the least.

It was exhausting, keeping up with him, more frustrating than anything she’d experienced in years. After another minute of dancing around him to avoid being struck she changed tactics, dropped low and swept her leg, wrapping it around his calf to throw him off balance. She kicked out with her other leg, hitting the side of his knee and he went down, catching himself with his hands, face distorted in rage as he rounded on her.

Natasha dodged just in time to avoid his lunge and brought her elbow crashing into his ribs, enough to get him to contract in reflex, enough to give her the room she needed. She shoved her way beneath and flipped him, using his own weight against him, and pinned him, throat trapped beneath her knee. She sat on his chest, other leg trapping his left arm. It didn’t matter how strong he was, with his arm trapped against his side like this he simply couldn’t get the leverage to push her off.

But the Soldier didn’t seem fazed in the slightest, shoved his hips up sharply, dislodging her just enough to get his arm free and then tossed her aside with enough force to send her nearly off the mat. But Natasha grabbed the edges. She didn’t intend to lose, no matter how difficult an opponent.

She looked him over again, as they squared off. The metal from his arm extended to his shoulder and further, and from what she could make out beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the seam was right where his shoulder blade would be. She waited for him to move, sidestepped his jab, circled around him and thrust out her palm, right at that seam.

He stumbled a step, and she didn’t miss a beat, took out his knee again, sent him crashing to the mat _again_ , this time, face first. She maneuvered herself quickly into position, arms around his throat, thighs on his trapezius and upper arm, knee pushing hard in to the seam of his arm. He made a sound, more anger than pain, but it was more reaction than he’d had the entire fight, so she took it as a win.

“Enough, Romanova. Well done.” There was a sound of genuine approval in Madame M’s tone. Something so rare it sent Natasha’s heart fluttering. Praise was hard-won here. She climbed off the Winter Soldier, almost reluctantly so. They both stood, bowed to each other curtly, as they’d been taught.

“You will train with her the rest of the week,” Madame said, “Dismissed.” The Winter Soldier showed no reaction to this order, nor did he give Natasha any look of approval or disdain. He simply turned on his heel and left the room.

“Congratulations,” Madame added, facing her, “Natasha Romanova is no more. Now you are Black Widow.”

Natasha swallowed, forcing her heart to slow, and nodded in acknowledgment.

#

Dinner that night had no taste. She was too nervous. One fight, sure, but how was she going to make it through a whole week with the Winter Soldier? She could feel the phantom sensation of her own sternum cracking. She was just as human, as fragile, as Pogrobev. The vitamin shots they received may have extended their lives and made them slightly faster, but they didn’t give her any superhuman strength or durability. If he wanted her out of the way badly enough, he’d surely find an opportune moment and do just that.

#

Natasha’s sleep was uneasy, filled with fits and bursts of dreams of falling and breaking and bleeding. She hadn’t dreamt like this in years. Nightmares galloping through her mind, leaving past memories and pains in their wake. She felt as though every wound she’d ever had was reopening, like she was bleeding out, and her bedsheet was soaked full with red. They felt like memories, decades of pain that couldn’t possibly be hers.

When she woke, sweat-soaked, she felt more exhausted than she had before she’d gone to sleep. Still groggy as she entered the mess hall for breakfast, and took her tray of food, still groggy as she sat in her usual spot, alone in the corner. She looked up in confusion when someone set a tray down across from her. The Winter Soldier sat across from her and began eating his breakfast. No greeting, not even a glance. It was nerve-wracking. She’d rather be on the mat training with him, than this.

“We are to train together,” she said, finally, unable to suppress the impulse to say something.

He nodded, midst-chew.

She went back to eating her own breakfast, eggs now cold. It would be foolish to voice all the thoughts running through her brain, so she didn’t, but she thought them nonetheless. Why had they assigned her to train with him, for what purpose? There was always a purpose, here. It was a mark in her favor certainly, but there was no ranking here, amongst widows. They were all held to the same standard. She’d seen girls eliminated, killed off or sent away, never to be seen again, but she’d never seen one become a leader or another rank.

Which meant assigning her to the Winter Soldier was not a commendation. It was something else.

“What will you teach me?” she asked him finally, her endless questions boiled down to one.

“How not to die.” He drank from his glass of water, adding, “And whatever else they tell me to teach you.”

#

Training with him ended up being both much more difficult and far more exciting than she’d imagined. It was different than the perfunctory sparring match they’d had in the group room. Here, in their own sparring ring, with no one else watching, they had far more space, and no rules of decorum. As they went on, their sparring became more of a dance, with increasingly elaborate twists and steps. Their rhythm went in and out of sync, two melodies, different, but not disharmonious. He went to throw her once, but didn’t quite manage, ending in a ballet lift she quickly turned into a flying roundhouse.

Whatever their handlers had told him, it was clear the intent was not to hurt her in any lasting way. But bruising was inevitable. She bruised when sparring with other widows too, bony wrists clashing against bony wrists. With him, she had to make sure to avoid his metal arm at all costs. If he landed one blow, the damage would be far worse than a bruise. As it was, his other limbs were plenty damaging. Her thigh ached with the memory of a kick from yesterday, and her right bicep was numb from where he’d landed a blow hours earlier.

On their fourth and final match of the day, she was determined to win a round. Loss after loss may not be enough to remove her from this pairing, but her ego couldn’t take any more of it. He might be unreadable, but he definitely had patterns. It had just taken her longer to figure out what they were. So she waited for him to move, let him get within three feet of her and then sidestepped into a pirouette, launching up into the air, spiraling around to land on his shoulders, locking his head between her thighs. He slammed them both down to the floor, tried to get her into a grappling hold, but she evaded his attempts at a lock, once, twice and a third time.

Then she flipped her leg, pushing again at the seam of his arm, while pinning his head down with her torso. Her breath felt hot, as she panted against his hair, and she inhaled the smell of his sweat, and exertion: she’d tied him out, _finally_. It smelled like triumph.

His grunt of annoyance thrilled her. It was more than she’d accomplished in the last few days, if not the last year. Nobody took him by surprise. That was his job. The reason he was such a deadly weapon. “I yield,” he said, tapping her on her shin.

Natasha let go, stood and went into a back-spring, landing lightly on her feet. She felt intensely good about herself.

And the Winter Soldier was—he was smiling at her. “Good fight.” He extended his hand to congratulate her.

She reached for him, smiling herself and then he stopped. Everything stopped. The world around her froze, the Soldier’s expression and body unmoving like he’d been cast in translucent amber.

A glow from the corner of her eye caught her attention. A bracelet she’d forgotten she was wearing. She looked down at it and without understanding completely why, knew what to do. With thumb and forefinger she carefully plucked one of the beads off the bracelet. It snapped free, a tiny orb of light, and she placed it midair, right in front of the Winter Soldier’s forehead.

“One down,” she said to herself, and there were two of her, two voices, one deeper and older than hers, but still her.

The stillness around her wobbled and collapsed, and fell away into nothingness.

#

When the blur of reality settled again, two more days had passed.

It was the fourth and final night of her exclusive training, she was exhausted and had retired to her new private quarters to rest. A knock came on her door, she opened it and found an attendant outside, who handed her a parcel. “Standard operating procedure,” he said.

Natasha nodded, and took the package from him, shutting the door again. Her hands only shook a little as she opened it. She’d heard all kinds of stories of what such personal deliveries held. And they’d isolated her. So there was nobody else to bear witness, nobody else to see…

But inside was some kind of clothing. Black silk: a beautiful dress, adorned with white stitching, with a matching pair of shoes and a mission folder.

She opened the folder and read it, decoded it easily. She’d memorized all five basic cyphers they used:

_You and the Winter Soldier will attend the symphony and execute Ambassador Belinksy._

_The Soldier is back-up for you, but you are also his. If he acts abnormally or does not follow procedure you will be responsible for getting him back in line. The following commands are to be spoken in an emergency and will render him immobile. If deploying the words is necessary, you will bring him to a secure location until he can be extracted._

Natasha’s heart had climbed all the way up her throat by the time she reached the end of the order. She read it again and again, making sure to memorize the command words. She felt, sweaty, nauseous. The idea of commands like this working on someone like him was horrifying. The fact that they’d entrusted her with them was equally horrifying and exhilarating. That kind of confidence required a trust she hadn’t thought she’d earned.

 _James & Natalia Shostakova_, the invitation card said, along with the address, date and time. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, she and the Winter Soldier would pretend to be a couple, attend a symphony, and kill a man.

She set the invitation and orders on her bed and picked up the dress again, holding it up in front of her. She ran her fingers over the fabric, marveling at how soft and cool it felt. She’d never worn anything so fine.

Idly, she wondered if the Winter Soldier had ever been on a mission such as this one before. It seemed out of place for him. Though, she thought, James did suit him. It was easy to think of him as James. Easier certainly than having no name for him at all. Either way, such a mission was a waste of his talents. Widows were trained to be discreet and to meld into all social circles, but him? It meant that their target was too important to trust to only one agent. It also meant that if they failed, they would be punished, or in her case, likely killed.

Natasha hung the dress carefully over her chair and laid back down in the bed, mind racing.

#

The crowd at the symphony was largely ostentatious, packed to the brim with guests—dressed in finery and talking loudly to each other, all bluster, no substance. Natasha hated it all. It was too loud, and everyone here wore a mask—more than makeup and jewelry—a false persona meant to impress those around them. She took comfort in the thought that James must have been feeling much the same.

Surely, he hadn’t been trained to be in this kind of environment. And yet, he showed no signs of discomfort. Perhaps he’d learned how to stop feeling altogether.

He certainly looked the part of a guest, the tailored suit framing his body beautifully, showcasing his broad shoulders and strong legs. His hair was combed back, and looked black in the soft lighting of the receiving hall. He held himself differently, aware of how to make himself appear, for the moment, less threatening than he was. But when he smiled in greeting to the bejeweled women ogling him, there wasn’t a hint of warmth in his eyes. Anyone who knew where to look would know he was hiding something.

Luckily everyone else there was too inebriated or too self-involved to notice.

Natasha took James by the arm, and together they wove through the crowd of attendees, and slipped up the stairs towards the theater without any difficulty.

#

Natasha escaped through a door into an empty boxed seat, breathing heavily. She’d had a chance at the target and missed. The ambassador had been close, but before she’d had a chance to aim her firearm properly, a woman had come up to him, her young daughter in tow, and Natasha—despite all her training—lost her nerve.

So, reprimanding herself, heart racing, Natasha had run. But in her hurry, she hadn’t put her firearm away fully, still clutching it, held at her side, when she slipped into the box seats.

“Is that—a gun?” a quiet voice asked. A child’s voice. The boy stared at her, with round blue eyes under a shock of blond hair. His mouth moved like he was going to say something else, but was too frightened. Natasha gave him her friendliest smile, and tucked the gun out of sight, behind her back. If he ran, he’d give them away. Their whole mission would be compromised. She knew what to do, she’d been trained to do it. But now, looking at the boy’s face, she couldn’t get her limbs to obey.

“Natalia, there you are,” James said, appearing behind her.

She’d been so distracted, she hadn’t even sensed his approach. He was focused on the boy, though his eyes looked at her. He knew what had happened. Could see it on the lines of her face. “The intermission is almost over.” He moved towards the seats, and sat down, sprawling, convincingly relaxed, claiming the seat as his. Turning to face the boy, he asked, “What’s your name?”

The boy shifted his weight, from one leg to the other. “Piotr.”

“Well, Piotr, surely you know you’re not supposed to be up here,” James added, humorlessly. “These are private booths. We paid a lot of money for them.”

At that, Natasha had to stifle a snort. They certainly hadn’t paid a thing, and knowing their handlers, they hadn’t either. Not money, anyway.

“Your parents are probably looking for you,” James continued. “Come, I’ll take you to security, let them know that you’re—“

The boy blurted out, “No—no please. I’ll go back.” But he stayed where he was, eyes darting to Natasha’s hand. The one that had held the gun.

“I have a gun too,” James said, teeth glinting as he smiled at Piotr. Natasha’s stomach dropped when he added, “Want to see?"

Piotr nodded eagerly, eyes widening, as James drew his own gun. Natasha readied herself. She wouldn’t let him kill the boy, she _wouldn’t_.

But James still had the safety on. He held the gun out sideways, so Piotr could admire it. “You won’t say anything, will you?”

Piotr shook his head.

“Can we trust you?”

“Yes,” Piotr said, as earnestly as a child could manage, “you have my word.”

“Good,” James stood and slipped his gun back in its hidden holster. “Go now, before I change my mind.” He gave the boy a wink, and Piotr, grinning, darted out the door.

Natasha watched the boy run, filled with a disorienting mix of relief and anxiety. James had spared him. But why? She waited for the door to close, and sat, silently, next to James.

“The target’s been eliminated,” he said, voice low. “It won’t be long before they find the body. We need to leave.”

“But the boy—” she expected a reprimand, a threat, a warning, something. The Winter Soldier was ruthless.

He met her eyes and the intensity there made her gasp. His eyes were wide and alive, and glassy, like he’d been struggling with emotion. Not how she knew him to be. Not at all. The boy had woken something in him, enough to spare his life.

The orchestra below began the next passage of Tchaikovsky’s symphony, strings building steadily, violins and violas in steady waves with a building current of cellos and bass beneath. A soft light from Natasha’s wrist grew stronger, and as the violins hit their high F, the world froze, that one moment sustained, the note steady, clear and unending. The vibrations of the cellos were a solid hum, thrumming through her feet as she plucked the bead from the bracelet. Natasha hesitated, looking at the Soldier’s—at James’ expression. Though she couldn’t remember exactly what came next, her gut remembered: Something bad, something painful, something she didn’t want to relive. She stroked her hand gently over James’ cheek, and then carefully, set the bead in the air between them.

The concert hall melted around her, all its gilded splendor running together like watercolors until everything was grey.

#

They had lots of missions after, one blurring into the next, too many to remember. But she did remember the last time she saw James. She never knew what they had done wrong—perhaps nothing, perhaps they had just liked each other a smidgeon too much, but one night her door burst open and four guards came in, grabbed, her, and shot her with a tranq gun. She didn't scream; she wouldn't. The drug immobilized her body, yet left her awake; they carried her out and down the corridor to an interrogation room.

#

“What is your name?”

Natasha woke, dragged her heavy eyelids open. “Natasha Romanova.”

A hand slapped her cheek, hard.

“What is your name?”

“Widow. Black Widow.”

“What is your purpose, Black Widow?”

“To serve the motherland.”

“Did you follow all your orders?”

Natasha bit back her answer. She wanted to shout “ _yes_ ,” but she knew better. So she stayed quiet instead, focused on trying not to let the hot, angry tears gathering in her eyes spill over.

And then they said the one thing that could shock her.

“You will never see the Soldier again, and he will remember nothing of you.” Madame M took two steps away, and the lights gradually became brighter. Not more than twenty feet across from her was another, much larger chair; a wicked-looking thing made of metal. And strapped to the chair, bare-chested, with clamps around his arms and legs, and wires attached to his head, was James. They’d placed a leather strap in his mouth.

“Watch,” Madame said, as a guard grabbed the back of Natasha’s neck. Then Madame raised her hand, giving a signal to the men standing behind the metal chair. They wore medical face-masks, enough to conceal their identity. In another reality, Natasha thought, near hysterically, she was breaking free, tearing their masks off so she could see their faces as she snapped their necks and saved James. But in this world, she sat, powerless, and watched as they prepared to torture a man for her failings.

They flipped levers, one after the other clicking into place. A loud buzzing sound came from the chair, the wires attached to James’ head sparked, and the room began to fill with the stink of ozone and burning hair. And then James bucked up in his seat, back arching as a scream tore through him. His teeth clamped down hard on the strap in his mouth, and he strained against the metal holding him. He was in _so much_ pain: the agonized sounds coming from him grew along with the crackling light around his head.

Natasha couldn’t have formed words, even if she’d had any. But Madame knew what she was thinking anyway, and answered, with a sickening clinical tone. “Those are his memories we’re burning. The mission details, everything that happened in the last few months. _You_. Useless knowledge for him.” She moved closer to Natasha, put her hand on her shoulder. “You should know that we have this device, and though we’re hesitant to use it on those who aren’t made to withstand it, we will, if left with no other option.” She let go completely, and lowered her voice. “I like you Widow. You show promise. But there are others in the web, eager to take your place.”

Natasha heard the threat, but it held no power. All her heart felt was pity for what James was suffering. Because he was human, too. Because they both were.

#

Natasha was left there, left to bear witness, long after they removed James, unconscious, from the chair. The guards prodded her to stand and marched her out behind Madame M. They went from one corridor to another, to a section of the complex she’d never seen before. Jail cells, she realized, as they went deeper down the hall towards the solid metal door at the very end.

“We don’t want you to forget, little spider. But you will wish that you could,” Madame said, solemnly, as the guards opened the door and dragged Natasha inside. She struggled, panicked when she saw where they were putting her, got her arm free long enough to elbow the guard on her right in the nose, but the one on her left knocked her hard on the knees with his baton, and sent her crashing to the floor.

She landed face first, on the cold hay-strewn cement. It smelled like urine and decay—dead mice and other, larger carcasses. The room was too dark to see any details, but she knew what it was, had heard it whispered about by the other girls often enough: the Pit. The punishment worse than death. Days of loneliness, with just enough food to survive; no light, no sound, nothing but your thoughts to drive you mad.

Natasha got out one scream of pure fear before the door closed.

#

There was a dot of light above her. The window in the pit was barely larger than a pinhole. It was there to remind occupants of the outside world they were no longer a part of. Not enough to see by. Still, when that tiny circle went bright from the midday sun, she reached her hand out to it, let the dot rest in the palm of her hand, cupping it like a precious jewel.

She kept track of the days by the coming and going of the light. The nights felt endless. Sleep was difficult and uneasy when it did come. The straw was full of tiny crawling things, but the rest of the floor was too cold to sleep on. Oftentimes, she couldn’t get herself to lay down, sat instead with her head resting against the icy stone wall.

Some nights, the sky was bright enough that she could see the dot above her, the dark blue of the night still brighter than her lightless prison. She thought then of a fairytale that her mother had told her as a child, about a girl who was cursed to turn into a bird, as punishment for her flighty nature. But Natasha had always envied the girl. To be a bird was to be free. She longed for that freedom, imagined herself flying up the shaft towards that hole high above and escaping into the night, no longer earthbound, no longer tied to anything.

Once a day, a guard came by to push a tray of food through the slot in the door. A tin bowl of water and a block of bread. It was hard as rock, but Natasha ate it greedily, starved as she was. The tenth night, nothing came through the slot. Instead, the door opened and a man walked in, carrying the tray. No, not just a man—the Winter Soldier. _James_.

Natasha staggered to her feet and moved towards him as he set the tray on the floor. She felt a pressing need to get to him before he tried to leave the room. For a fleeting second she considered trying to slip past him and out of the room, but weakened as she was, she didn’t stand a chance. So instead, she stopped, only inches away from him, and begged, “Let me out of here. Please.”

He looked at her, without an ounce of recognition, mouth drawn in a thin line, eyes flat and empty.

“They made you forget me," she said, voice wavering with pain, "but I won’t forget you. You have my word.” Even as she made that promise, she knew it was a lie. Three days later, they would tear him from her mind, use the chair on her when she discovered he was gone. This moment, here in the Pit, was the last time they’d stood across from each other. Until Odessa. “I won’t,” she repeated, and her promise hung in the air as time slowed to a crawl and then stopped. She lifted her arm, plucked the last bead from the band around her wrist and cupped it in her palm, shining, just as the daylight had, before setting it in the air in front of James—where he would see it, where he would remember, and find his way back to them.

The dark walls crumbled, shattering apart until they stood outside in a moonlit field of snow. She looked at James, one last time, statue-still in her memory, and then she let go, let herself be pulled forward through time—to Odessa—to DC—to the table, his hand around her throat, “you could at least remember me,” she said, and he could have told her the same thing.

#

With a soft beep, the simulator unit turned off, and Natasha was back with the other Avengers, what was left of them. Steve looked at her, eyes shining with hope. “Did you—“

“Yeah,” she nodded, still too overwhelmed to say more than that one word just yet.

“Thank you,” Steve said, with so much more than gratitude. “Now I can—we can bring him back.” He swallowed, threw his arms around her. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” she asked, but Rogers had gotten better at reading people, and she was far too shaken to hide it.

“It couldn’t have been easy, going back there,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter.” She pulled back, but squeezed his hand, locking eyes with him, and slipped the bracelet off of her wrist and onto his. “Now go get him.”

 


End file.
